


10 Points of Contact

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Third Star - Freeform, au johnlock, johnlock au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:58:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Sherlock/Third Star crossover oneshot.</p><p>Sherlock has very little time to live. Mycroft, Lestrade, and John accompany him until the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	10 Points of Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic prompt from tumblr! Loving this one. Sorry for the angst. I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Please leave a comment or at least kudos to let me know if you enjoyed it!
> 
> Book covers by the incredible undergroundmindpalace and moriartys-chaos and willamholmes on tumblr!

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_One_

"Terminally ill." Hollow voice. I look at John. He's rubbing his face. Distress. My fault? Can't help the cancer. I've done the research.

"And they're certain."

Roll eyes. Lestrade: eternally tiring. "No, the top cancer specialists in the world just made a dire miscalculation." Didn't mean to sound snappy. Too late.

"Dick," Greg retorts, but his eyes say otherwise.

"So... is there an estimate?"

Mycroft. Forgot he was skulking in the corner, half shrouded by the gray swinging curtain next to my bed. "A week, maybe two."

"And they're discharging you, just like that?" John's voice trembles. John, so concerned, distraught. Life ends. We all know this. Do not want to add to his list of losses, though. Can't be helped. Hope he knows that I would do anything to keep him safe, if I could. I’ve tried.

"Tubes and needles can only do so much," I explain. Weary. Machines beeping. Everyone glances at the monitor, holding their breath until the digital lines return to normal. John glares at the electronic box. It has offended him, this piece of machinery. Palpable evidence of my fate.

"So what will you do then?" Mycroft's voice is quiet. Unusual, and disconcerting.

I hesitate. It was an idea, a dream. Would require teamwork: not my area. Compliance from Lestrade, too.

John can read me. My masks are compromised in this state; suppose everyone can read me now. How unpleasant. "What's the idea?" asks John.

 

_Two_

Wind blowing against my face. Chapped lips, flaccid limbs. Weakness. John finds my hand and squeezes it.

I am not one to admire beauty, but the empty winding road ahead of us, the silence, the gentle golden sun comes close to beautiful.

Lestrade clutches a map in the front seat, murmuring directions to my brother.

I shut my eyes and rest my head on John's shoulder.

 

_Three_

Can walk. Refuse Mycroft's proffered arm, ignore John's furrowed brow. Sand undulating beneath my toes, a familiar give and take. Quiet. Hypersensitive: can hear the individual grains cracking, can sense the salty water, can hear the grasses whispering. Diagrams swirl through my head. No energy to indulge them anymore.

"Here we are." John has stuck to my side since we walked into the hospital parking lot. Can't complain. Arm bumps against his.

We left the blanket in the boot. I don't mind. Find an indent in the swaying reeds. Collapse into it. John's hand comes to rest protectively on my hip, fingers splayed across the side of my abdomen.

"Remember?" I ask Mycroft. He nods.

Kids back then. He returned from uni and I was twelve. Mum dragged us here. Bickered all the way, then chased each other through the waves. Laughing: an odd phenomenon, coming from me. But laugh we did.

"I used to love the beach," Greg says. Pause. I can imagine that, I suppose.

"It's lovely," John agrees. He shifts closer to me, knees touching, and his voice blows soft puffs of breath against my neck. Shiver. Boundaries have dissipated with my diagnosis. Nothing off limits. Surprisingly, I am okay with it.

"Sherlock." Mycroft looks haggard. Worse than ever before. Last time I saw him like this was when he nearly got arrested for some questionable communications with Pakistan's ISI. "Do you want to go in?"

Do I?

 

_Four_

We wade in together. Lestrade, then John, then me, then Mycroft. A line. Like drifting buoys.

"Cold?" John asks. Goose flesh creeps up his exposed forearm.

"No," I say. I'm not. He is. I peel off my cardigan, thick and warm. Wrap it around his shoulders. He says nothing, just hugs his arms to his chest and stops shaking.

Seaweed insinuates itself around my ankles. A trap, an exotic olive green chain swirling in murky clouds of dark sand. When I free myself of its grasp, I almost lose my balance. Mycroft catches me.

“Thanks,” I mutter. Gratefulness: also an odd phenomenon.

We go back to standing and staring and listening. Horizon appears endless, though I know that’s an optical illusion. Everything ends.

“Are you hungry?” Lestrade asks.

Nobody responds.

 

_Five_

It happens en route to the playground where I broke my arm. One minute I’m upright, the next I’m gasping for air and Mycroft’s yelling.

 

_Six_

A day. Twenty-four hours. I can stay in bed, they say, or leave. Doesn’t matter. It’ll be over either way.

Mycroft grabs the keys blindly and hurries us into the car. Can’t stand Greg; he’s too sad. Sorrow. For me? Probably. John. I don’t want to look at him. Can’t look away, though. Paradox.

He’s not tentative now. His voice is rough, when he speaks at all, and in the back seat as I drift in and out of sleep on his lap he tangles his fingers, uninhibited, in my hair. Wake up. Sunlight streaming in. Don’t know where we are. Reality? Lines are blurred.

“Where are we?” Greg voices my question. John’s thumb traces circles on my temple.

“Meadow. Get out,” Mycroft says tightly. His face is drawn. Fear. Acute, like an icy blade driven into my gut. Do care about him, hope he knows.

John helps me out of the car. “Come here,” he whispers. “Take my hand.”

“Do you remember?” my brother asks, falling into step beside us.

“No,” I reply. Feet won’t cooperate. Slow pace. John, limping, has a broader gait than me now.

“When Dad left. Mum drove six hours here. We had a picnic. She cried. You were only three. Despite the sober circumstances, I was... content. I showed you how to catch bugs in a jar, and...” His voice trails off. Emotion, raw. He’ll miss me. I understand now.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

 

_Seven_

Oxygen running low. Heart slowing. Can feel it in my toes. I slump against a solid tree trunk, lean into John. Greg barely says a word, but sits a foot away, emanating a protective aura. He cares too. Interesting. Doesn’t want me to die. Sorry. Not within my control.

The sun’s starting to set. Dreadful cliche. Longest dusk I’ve ever witnessed. Should not be possible.

Mycroft wordlessly moves over and grips my shoulder. He knows what’s happening. He heard the doctors. I didn’t. One look was enough.

“Brother mine,” he sighs suddenly. Orange and gold streak across the sky, staining it a burning crimson hue.

“Yes.” Mumble. Talking requires inhalation. Not my area anymore.

“Thank you,” he says.

Manage tail end of a response. “...what?”

“For being you.” Cheesy. Normally would not approve. “I... you’re a wonderful man. And you don’t deserve this.”

I nod and fall into John’s arms. Reach for my brother, find his elbow, squeeze it, hard.

“Should I call someone?” Lestrade asks. Stricken, hands trembling. “Should I...?”

I shake my head infinitesimally. John’s warmth equals safety. His scent, security. His pulse, throbbing against my skin, love. Do not want to move.

“Don’t,” Mycroft says. Still have my hand on his elbow.

Sun setting. Faster now. Dark purple and mauve and eggplant and I shut my eyes. Watch white sparks play against the indigo backdrop of my lids. Breathing labored.

Greg and Mycroft are near, not close. Know not to smother me. Careful to respect my personal space. I don’t like people touching me. Except John.

A tear snakes down his cheek, lands on the tip of my nose. Focus on the nine points of contact between us, skin to skin friction. Wondrous sensation.

All is said and done. Do not see a light at the end of a tunnel; that legend is rubbish. Fall into a pit, like Alice in Wonderland, and the last few seconds are filled with saturated color and enhanced senses.

John’s lips. Soft, like him, pressing against mine. He tastes good; why wouldn’t he? Bliss. His palms lovingly cradle my chin, mouth gentle. Pulls away. Darkness closing in. A tender kiss presses lightly against my forehead, my jawline, my cheek. And comes to rest, finally, on my temple.

Contentment, cessation, completion.

Ten points of contact.


End file.
